I Mean You No Harm

by Beth Castrodale

  Still, it was the reminder Layla needed: that this bedside visit wasn’t about her, about what she wanted or needed or had issues with. It was all about Bette coming to terms with things as her life wound down.

  As Bette settled back on the bed, Layla took her hand again. “I appreciate your telling me the truth. I know it will help me, with time.” A lie, with all the feeling of a press release. But it was the best she could do. “Now, I should let you rest.”

  Layla started to rise, but Bette kept hold of her hand.

  “I need to ask you a favor.” Now, her voice was barely a whisper. “And you have every right to say no.”

  Layla sensed what was coming, tried to let it sink in. “You want me to pick up that money and deliver it to Marla.”

  “Yes. I could ask Marla to get it, but she doesn’t know the story behind the money. And I’d rather not bring it up with her now. The more important thing is, I’d like her to stay focused on Jake.”

  Given the situation with Bette, Jake would need more support than usual. And there would be plenty of other things on Marla’s plate, things Layla didn’t like to think of: looking after Bette until her end, and then arranging a service for her, if one was desired. After that, Marla would have to deal with all the paperwork and other complications that would surely follow from the loss.

  Bette was watching Layla, waiting for an answer. Why no easy yes? Layla wasn’t sure. All the troublemakers were out of the picture, or so Bette had been assured, and the coast was supposedly clear. Still, nothing about this trip had been as it first had seemed to Layla. Who could say that no further surprises awaited, those unknown even to Bette?

  As if sensing Layla’s misgivings, Bette said, “The place where the money’s being held is super-secure. Businesspeople all over the country keep money there, and do deals with the guy who runs it.”

  Crooked businesspeople, Layla thought. And crooked deals. “Is it some kind of bank?”

  “Not exactly. It probably has better security than most banks.”

  Layla pictured armed men in watchtowers. The image didn’t exactly put her at ease.

  “Like I said, you don’t have to do this, Layla. I know I’m asking a lot.”

  Maybe Bette wasn’t asking so much, in the scheme of things. Layla thought of her own grandparents, how it hadn’t been part of their plans to raise another child. Though Layla had never heard them complain about this, the expense had definitely stretched them financially. No doubt, Marla would also be stretched, and the money could do her and Jake a lot of good, even if it was dirty. And knowing they would get it, Bette could exit the world with some peace of mind.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Bette closed her eyes, as if taking in the news. When she opened them, they were shining with tears. “Thank you, Layla.”

  You’re welcome didn’t feel like the right response to Layla. It wouldn’t be honest.

  Bette seemed to sense Layla’s reservations. “You should take half the money. You deserve it.”

  One million dollars.

  Contemplating that sum, Layla felt the same nausea-tinged thrill she had in Bette’s attic, when she handled that money from Vic.

  “Thanks, but I can’t. Jake’ll need that money, all of it. Marla, too.”

  “Then take a quarter-million. Or more.”

  As tempting as the offer was, it felt like an invitation to another complication in Layla’s life, or worse. The last thing she needed right now. “I appreciate that, but I can’t. Just tell me what I need to know.”

  Bette seemed to catch a wave of energy, not a large one. But it was enough to raise her voice from a whisper as she shared the following details:

  —“The guy” holding the money was a certain Xavier (“Zav”) Leos. That morning, Bette alerted him that Layla might be picking up the money in her stead. As Bette explained to Layla, “He knows things aren’t looking good for me.”

  —When Layla arrived at Leos’s address, she was to call him from a burner phone, for additional security and anonymity. “Call him whenever you get there, day or night. He’ll be ready. Or he’ll make himself ready.” She was to use a number that Bette had written on a scrap of paper and tucked under the insole of her right shoe. (Layla retrieved this scrap and tucked in under the insole of her own right shoe.)

  —When Leos answered, Layla was to recite a fourteen-digit code consisting of Bette’s and Jake’s birthdays, and the number 18. “Just a back-stop measure,” Bette explained, “to keep some impostor from taking the money.” (Having been asked to commit the code to memory and never write it down, Layla repeated it back to Bette three times.)

  —Leos would then admit her to his “compound” and deliver to her three briefcases containing two million dollars.

  —She’d exit the compound, destroy the phone number and phone, and drive to Bette and Marla’s, where Bette had installed a wall safe behind the boxes on the right side of the attic. The same fourteen-digit code opened it, and Layla was to pass this on to Marla.

  The mention of Marla brought to mind an uncomfortable moment that Layla was sure to face. “What do I tell her about where the money came from?”

  “Say it’s something I put aside for her and Jake, and you don’t really know where it came from.”

  Layla knew that Marla would see right through such bullshit. She’d guess, rightly, that Vic was at the bottom of all the money.

  Bette seemed to be reading Layla’s thoughts. “If she gets pissed, it’ll be at me, not you. And sooner rather than later, she’s not going to be anything but grateful for that money. I promise you.”

  Layla supposed Bette was right. And she couldn’t help but imagine what a difference that amount of money would make in her own life. But this wasn’t about her life; it was about Jake’s. Though he was high-functioning, odds were that he’d never live independently, or completely so. And Marla wasn’t going to be around forever.

  “Do we need to explain my little trip to her?”

  Bette scrunched the sheet again, thinking things through. “I’ll tell her you’re going to finish our errand and get that art stuff for Jake. And that won’t be a lie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After Dad died, I got a condolence call from Zav.”

  “How’d he get the news?”

  “He’d been keepin’ an eye on the obituaries. Dad had called to tell him he didn’t have long, and he gave Zav my number in case he needed to reach out to me, about the money or anything else. Turned out there was an anything else.”

  Jesus, Layla thought. Another complication.

  “Zav said Dad had mentioned Jake’s interest in art, and he’d just learned that a contact of his had come across some computer-aided art tools, tools that Jake might like. He promised to hand them over to me when I picked up the money. As a belated thank-you to Dad.”

  “For what?”

  “He said Dad did something nice for him awhile back, after he lost his own son.”

  Clearly, Bette had fabricated the story that the art tools were coming from a Craigslist advertiser.

  “So, you want me to get the art stuff along with the money.”

  “Yes,” Bette said. “Please. I’ll tell Marla you’ll be taking the truck for this reason.”

  “What about Vic’s golf clubs? And the landscaping stuff?”

  “Zav said he’d take ’em for his other business contacts. And you should take the truck, if you want it. Marla doesn’t need it, and I know she’ll only sell it.”

  That should be Marla’s decision, Layla thought, when the time comes. But she didn’t want to talk about that now.

  “The keys for the truck are in that top drawer, along with a burner phone.” Bette nodded toward the nightstand. “And the teeny gold key opens my suitcase, which you’re gonna wanna do at some point.”

  “May I ask
why?” Layla braced herself for another complication, another loose end she’d have to tie up.

  “I got you a little something in Eureka.”

  They’d stopped there for lunch, pulling into a shopping plaza that seemed to have been overtaken by indie businesses and food trucks. While Layla had bought them falafel wraps and fries, Bette had dashed off to the bathroom—and to one of the shops, apparently.

  “It’s in a purple bag from the store,” Bette said, “and I just hope I tossed the receipt.”

  “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “Well, it’s nothing much. Just a small gift of thanks to the good sister from the—” Bette’s voice caught in her throat, and her eyes shimmered. “—from the broken one.”

  Layla grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, handed it to Bette.

  “You are not broken,” Layla said, as Bette wiped her eyes.

  If the stories of Bette’s youth were to be believed, she’d turned her life around—no small accomplishment. But it went beyond that.

  “You’ve done so many things right by Jake, and Marla. And I really appreciate the advice you gave me, about … you know.” Layla couldn’t bring herself to say the mail stalker.

  Bette seemed to be taking in her words. “I was hoping I’d be around long enough to get that son-of-a-bitch off your back.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll figure something out.”

  Bette worked the tissue through her fingers, thinking. “Let me put you in touch with Wes. I know he could help.”

  No doubt, he could, Layla thought. But she wasn’t ready to bring a hired killer onto her case, into her life. Such an entanglement felt like a devil’s bargain. “I don’t feel comfortable with that.”

  Bette didn’t look satisfied. “Then do something else for me. Take that gun home with you, get some lessons with it.”

  Layla didn’t want to get into another argument about guns, not now. “All right.”

  “There’s some ammo for it, in a locked compartment under the driver’s seat. Take that, too.”

  Layla tried not to think of all those miles she’d sat, unknowingly, alongside that cache of bullets. Now, she just asked, “Is there a key to the compartment somewhere?”

  “With the truck keys.”

  Bette settled back, looking more at peace. She showed a hint of a smile. “There’s one more thing you won’t wanna hear.”

  “What?”

  “That velvet box is in my suitcase.”

  The money.

  “I was worried you’d never claim it. Maybe this’ll make it a little harder for you to leave it behind.”

  Layla looked to her left, where Bette’s black wheelie bag bulged from the room’s storage cabinet. It made her think of all the strange and illicit things that luggage had hidden from unsuspecting eyes over the years. Drugs. Sex toys. Body parts. Now, fifty thousand dollars, most likely ill-gotten.

  “Okay,” she said.

  She’d face the moral tangle over the money once she got home. Right now, she wanted to leave it where it was: tucked away in the black bag.

  Bette’s eyes were growing heavier, as if a fresh wave of fatigue was washing over her.

  “I really should let you rest.”

  This time, Bette raised no objections.

  As she made her way back to the waiting area, Layla thought again of what she’d learned: the Wolf was Gordon Cross. The man who’d killed her mother was now dead himself.

  In an ideal world, this news would bring a sense of relief that justice had been delivered, however belatedly. In an ideal world, this news would subtract the slightest bit of pain from the loss of her mother.

  It didn’t. Right now, she just felt numb.

  As she neared the waiting area, she heard her phone buzz in her handbag. But she kept moving. Whoever it was, she didn’t want to deal with them, not now. Then she thought of Kiki, who seemed to sense when Layla was having a rough time, and who had a way with comforting words.

  Layla gave in and took out her phone. What she saw on the screen jolted her: a text from Unknown. With a shaking hand, she opened it.

  See you soon, Dear Heart.

  This wasn’t from some random gospel bot. Only one person called her Dear Heart: the mail stalker. He meant to confront her when she got back home.

  Or had he followed her here?

  No, no, no. That just wasn’t possible. Or was it?

  Layla glanced toward the waiting area, then headed in the opposite direction, not ready to face Marla and Jake. She needed to keep moving, keep thinking, figure something out.

  Tell Bette about the text? No. That would only make her more unsettled as she left this world. And, anyway, what could Bette do?

  What about the cops, then? Should she bring them into this?

  Not now. Not before the end of this mission. This illegal mission.

  Fuck the mission, she thought. You never asked to get involved in it.

  Just go home.

  But more and more, she sensed that home was where the danger lay.

  What about Wes? What about putting him on the case?

  This question stopped her. For some time, she stared down the beeping, bustling corridor, amid the mysterious troubles in others’ lives. Until her mind nearly went blank. Then some old advice returned to her, from her Grandpa Roy: “When in doubt about anything, trust your gut.”

  Her gut told her that something was off about Wes. She didn’t know why she felt this way, but she did.

  No Wes, then.

  She might come to regret this decision, and soon. But it was the best call she could make under the circumstances.

  For now, she needed to stay focused on completing the Phoenix mission, as quickly as possible. When she got back home, her first stop would be the police, though she had little faith in them after what happened with her mom.

  Layla headed back to the waiting area, to Marla and Jake.

  Chapter 19

  Some Motel Parking Lot

  Santa Rosa, New Mexico

  Eleven hours after Bette’s death

  Layla stalled in front of the truck bed, fob-and-key ring in hand, suitcase at her feet.

  She’d never operated anything bigger than her grandparents’ LeSabre. She was used to driving close to the earth, to sensing the road and her distance from nearby cars, and other objects she might crash into. High up in the driver’s seat of the truck, she’d feel like a canoer who’d been given the wheel of a cruise ship—a possible danger to herself and others.

  Another challenge: this truck had been an extension of Bette, almost a physical part of her. It wouldn’t be just a means of travel for Layla, but a responsibility. Out of a superstitious sense that picturing the worst possible outcome might prevent that very thing, she imagined incinerating the truck—and herself—in a fiery collision.

  All right, all right, all right. Cut the shit and get moving.

  She pressed the fob for the doors, and they beeped agreeably, unlocking.

  She pressed the fob for the truck bed cover. Nothing.

  She tried again, and again, and again. Nothing.

  “Fuck.”

  She stepped closer, gave it another shot. Still nothing.

  From the corner of her eye, she sensed a figure approaching. Turning, she saw Jake racing toward her, like the truck was already in flames.

  When he reached her, he was nearly out of breath. “Mommy didn’t show you the trick?”

  “Nope.”

  He held out a hand, and she dropped the keys into them, watched him pick out the problem fob.

  “It’s kinda broken,” he said, “so you need two hands. Watch.” He pinched the base of the fob with two fingers, hovered a thumb over the button. “You need to squeeze both places, at the exact same time. Like this.”

&nb
sp; Jake aimed the fob truckward and did the deed. A beep and click from the bed’s cover answered his moves.

  He pumped his fist, then ran for the truck, started rolling back the cover. Though it was a durable-looking thing secured by a lock, it seemed inadequate protection for the fifty thousand dollars stashed in her suitcase, the money enclosed in nothing more secure than the velvet box. Anywhere it was hidden, a target would loom over it, in her mind.

  The other thing stashed in her suitcase was the gift from Bette in its purple bag. In the small hours of the morning, after the funeral home people had claimed Bette’s body, Layla retrieved the bag, along with the cash, from Bette’s luggage. She held off on opening it until she, Marla, and Jake were back at the motel. Until she was alone in her room.

  From the feel of the bag, Layla guessed it contained some sort of clothing, picturing the “Straight Outta Eureka” T-shirt she’d pointed out to Bette during their stop in that town.

  Uncinching the bag, she saw red-checked gingham: a dress?

  Unfurling the gingham, she discovered a long, full shirt with deep front pockets: an artist’s smock, something she’d been thinking of getting for months, years. How had Bette divined this desire? How had she lucked across a way to satisfy it at that obscure, if arty, shopping plaza?

  The smock had the sway and charm of a minidress, and a Peter Pan collar in white. If it were possible for Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and Twiggy to collaborate on a design, this might very well have been the result.

  In the dimness of that motel room, in those first hours after Bette’s death, Layla was struck by the bright, oddball perfection of the thing.

  Now, with Jake’s help, she maneuvered her fattened suitcase into the truck bed, squeezed it between Vic’s golf clubs and a pile of rakes: the spot Bette’s bag once occupied. After she and Jake replaced the cover, Layla tried his move with the fob, and relocked it.

  “Thanks for showing me that trick,” she said. “That was a big help.”

  “I know.”

  The loss of Bette seemed to have drained little of Jake’s good-natured energy, or his confidence. Still, he seemed slightly less talkative, slightly less present than he’d been before. Grief at work, Layla supposed. She had no idea how it was taking shape in him, or how that might change in the coming days. But if his experience were to be anything like her own, he’d never really break free of it, not entirely. He’d just find ways to live with it, with help from Marla—and from herself, if he’d want that.